


Maelstrom

by usakiwigirl



Series: Torch-ured [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usakiwigirl/pseuds/usakiwigirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been had. Screwed - and not in the way he liked. The kid had played him like a true virtuoso, a master of deception and deceit. He had a sufficient handle on his own character to recognise his feelings for what they were - betrayal, hurt, anger. He knew that he was mad enough to kill him; but he also felt a grudging tug of respect for just how well the strings had been pulled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maelstrom

**Author's Note:**

> Alternating chapters from Jack and Ianto's POV, starting with Jack.
> 
> Written for the now-defunct jack_ianto_LAS at Livejournal. A one-shot that has somehow turned into a chaptered story.
> 
> All characters are the property of RTD, BBC and Starz. No copyright infringement is intended

He’d been had. Screwed - and not in the way he liked. The kid had played him like a true virtuoso, a master of deception and deceit. He had a sufficient handle on his own character to recognise his feelings for what they were - betrayal, hurt, anger. He knew that he was mad enough to kill him; but he also felt a grudging tug of respect for just how well the strings had been pulled.

Looking down at the bloody, gory mess left by that _thing_ that had been brought into his home, watching the tear- and snot-covered face of… of… shit, he really didn’t know what to call him. Idiot, fool, liar, traitor - _bastard_. All worked. Calling him a kid was technically accurate - he was only what? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? Made Jack feel all of his hundred-plus years and then some. Maybe he should just stick with the basics. Jones.

As if he could hear Jack’s thoughts, the boy looked up, eyes puffy and bloodshot. Defiant, angry, yet underneath, hurting and vulnerable. Jack clenched his gun tighter, not sure if he was restraining himself from shooting, or afraid to do so.

He had every right to execute Jones. Beyond a right - it was written into the Charter of Torchwood. Treason was rewarded by execution. However, he’d severed ties with the Institute at the turn of the Century, essentially re-writing the Charter to suit himself and his ideals. He’d built a new Torchwood in Cardiff, different from Torchwood One. Execution didn’t sit well with him, despite the actions of Jones. His own, personal feelings of betrayal and hurt were the thoughts driving him towards killing Jones, which wouldn’t be execution, but murder.

Shit. Truth be told, Jones was right. A galling thought, that. He hadn’t bothered to learn anything about him, hadn’t done anything to integrate him into the team. Hell, even the newly ex-PC Cooper was more a part of the team after only a couple of months than the young man covered in blood and worse at his feet, who’d been a part of Torchwood Three for more than half a year.

His rage boiled again. Half a fucking year he’d been played. Him, a master conman himself. He’d never carried a con this long. Not even close. He knew how Jones had worked it, too. Well, he did now. Jack had played right into his overly capable hands, focusing his attention exactly where Jones directed it. Namely, his arse and that trim body. Jack had allowed his dick to make a decision that came close to killing everyone. Even Jones.

A tight feeling clenched around his heart. The thought of losing his team members, of losing what he’d worked so hard to build, that was what he was feeling, he was sure of it.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake a little niggling doubt, that it was more. That it was the thought of losing Jones himself - of losing Ianto, that made his body break into a cold sweat and his pulse pound in his ears. And he really hadn’t seen that coming at all.

TBC


	2. Turbulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t want to feel anything, or do anything, or acknowledge anyone. So why won’t he leave him alone?

The phone didn’t ring anymore, so it took him a full thirty seconds to register the sound echoing through his empty flat. It was jarring, and it didn‘t stop. He shoved the sofa pillow over his face, determined to drown out the infernal noise, but the sound permeated the feathers. With a loud groan, he threw the pillow across the room, trying to knock the phone off the hook, but no luck.

Why didn’t the dumb fuck on the other end just give up? He knew who it was. There could only be one person calling him at… he looked at his watch blearily - 5am. What the flying fuck was Jack fucking Harkness doing? Why did he feel the need to make his life miserable? Well, okay, that was stupid. Considering he was still alive, and that he had Harkness to thank for that, it seemed that the Boss could indeed do whatever he wanted. If that was to drag him out of a deep, yet troubled sleep then he could.

Thumping from the other side of his kitchen wall told him that the neighbours weren’t too impressed by the never-ending ringing alarm. He rolled off the sofa and crawled across the room, grabbing the phone and letting it drop to the floor. He couldn’t be arsed to move back to his ‘bed’, or hang the phone up. He simply flopped where he laid, uncaring.

He could hear Harkness’ tinny voice from near his head. He couldn’t make out the words, and didn’t care to. He simply hoped that by not answering, the man would get the point and hang up.

An ear-piercing shriek from the phone had him scrambling upright. He grabbed the receiver and yelled. “What the fuck! Jesus, are you trying to wake the entire city? Leave me alone!”

“No. Get your sorry ass up and dressed - sweats will do. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“You aren’t welcome.”

“Tough. Be ready, or I’ll drag you outside naked. It’s winter, Ianto. You’d miss those bits if they froze.” The dial tone finished the statement.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just leave me alone, you fucker,” he mumbled into the dead handset. He wanted to die. Or at least curl up on himself and never see the light of day again. He hurt, all over, inside and out. He didn’t want to forget, not really, but he never wanted to remember ‘that’ day again. God, why did it have to go so wrong?

He groaned. Why, why, why? It was all supposed to be good; Lisa made better, Tanazaki removing the metal from her body… Annie, the pizza girl, going home to her family. Why? What evil did he do that he - that she, they - deserved that fate, that punishment. God, the guilt. He almost killed them all. She - _it_ \- almost killed them all. And bloody Jack fucking Harkness took her from him. But she was already gone, wasn’t she?

He pulled his hair in frustration. He couldn’t make his thoughts coherent. Nothing made sense, not anymore. Hadn’t really made sense since London. But one thing did stand out - the threat of Harkness dragging him outside naked. It was the least he deserved, true. Still, a small part of him baulked at the thought of public humiliation.

He crawled to his bedroom, pulling on the first pair of sweats he could lay his hands on. He was still wearing his blood-soaked shirt. Hadn’t showered. Hadn’t brushed his teeth. He refused to look at himself in a mirror, knew that he looked like a mass-murderer. Because he was.

He hadn’t eaten, either. His nutrition came solely from the empty bottles of whisky scattered on the floor. He pulled himself to his feet, shaky on legs he hadn’t used for two days. His stomach roiled, threatening to give him all the drink he’d consumed back in one, heaving go.

There was no knock at the door when Harkness arrived. The man simply used his wrist strap doodad to bust the locks, then slammed the door behind him. He wrinkled his nose in displeasure.

“Jesus, Ianto, you’re a fucking mess.”

“Fuck off.”

“That the best you can do? Not surprised, I think you’ve pickled your brain.”

“What the fuck do you want, Harkness? There, is that any better?” His voice was rusty, slurred and uneven. Vaguely, he was horrified with how he sounded. Not enough to care, though.

“I should have been here before now. I fucking did it again,” Harkness muttered.

“What’s it to you? Just leave me alone. Or kill me, retcon me, whatever. Just do it and get the fuck out.”

“No, not this time. Get up, we’re leaving.”

He struggled to his feet, intent on adding another cut to Harkness’ lip. Instead, he over-reached as he swung, almost falling flat on his face.

“You’re drunk, I’ll bet you haven’t eaten, and Gods, you stink. I’d ask you to shower, but there’s no point. You’re going for a run.”

“What?”

“You heard. Outside, now. You don’t have to like it, but you are going to do it. Now, move!”

He moved. He didn’t know why, his body was acting before he could process the thought. He staggered out of his flat, using the wall to keep himself upright. The stairs were a bit of a problem; Harkness provided no help, so he sat down and scooted the length like a child. He was light-headed and giddy when he stood at the bottom.

“I can’t run.”

“Yeah, you can barely walk. However, you’re going to do it anyway. Even if it’s just around the block. Move.” There was no kindness in the words, or the tone of voice. He didn’t want to do it, but some part of him still felt the need to obey. Harkness was a bastard, yes, but he was still the Boss.

His first few steps were more of a controlled fall, until he found his rhythm. He hated running, always had, but once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. Harkness wasn’t pounding the footpath with him; he could see the SUV out the corner of his eye, keeping pace.

He ran until he couldn’t move, how long he didn’t know. It felt like forever, but could have only been the length of his street. His ability to tell time and distance was no longer active. He stumbled as his legs gave out, falling to the ground in a graceless heap. His breath came in hard, heaving pants, air a precious commodity he couldn’t seem to draw in.

Large, warm hands - caring, despite who they belonged to - picked him up off the ground, pushed him into the SUV, and buckled his seatbelt. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t see, and didn’t care. He was numb, no longer feeling anything. Not the guilt, not the pain, not the anger.

He barely noticed as hands dragged him up the stairs and back into his flat. The warm water of the shower hardly registered - although he did feel some slight bit of alarm that _he_ was washing his body. He wanted to push the hands away, drown in the water, but couldn’t make his arms work. And then he stopped caring, simply allowing Harkness to lead him by the arm around the flat. He ate automatically, he drank what was pushed in his hands, and he lay down on his bed when told to.

For the first time since… he slipped into blessed sleep easily, no scattered and tormented thoughts pulling his brain in different directions. As the world faded, he heard one last thing, a voice so broken and weary it nearly dragged him back.

“Ianto Jones, what the hell am I going to do with you?”


	3. Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s run the boy into the ground, exhausted him and put him to bed, but he still feels the urge to kill him.

The boy was asleep, calm and unaware of the world. He suspected it was the first time since… well, he was sure the boy needed the rest. It was obvious from the condition of the flat that he wasn’t taking care of himself. He supposed he should have seen that coming. Yeah, like he saw the betrayal, and the danger and the fact that the little shit lying in the bed in front of him played him for a fool. His fingers curled into a tight fist. Gods, what damage he could do to him now, asleep and innocent.

But cold-blooded murder was never his thing. Beating a target to within an inch of their life, now that he could do. Had done. He didn’t want to be that man anymore. He kept telling himself that that was the only reason the treacherous little fucker was still breathing. It didn’t - it couldn’t - have anything to do with the way his heart throbbed when he was anywhere near him.

Although it didn’t when he pushed his way into the flat this morning. Fuck, the boy was a mess. Still wearing that bloody shirt. And the smell. It was worse than the sewers, worse than the most rancid Weevil. Well, no. Not really. He was definitely ripe, though. It was a serious toss-up between shoving him in the shower, and making him run. In the end, running and then the shower seemed the most expedient.

Only now what was he to do with him? It was only mid-morning. Sure, the kid could potentially sleep for hours, but then what? He didn’t want his body clock turned around. He needed him functional… he needed him. He stopped. Jesus, he really needed him. How was he going to bring this boy back to his previous capabilities.

The boy stirred. He really should stop thinking of him as ‘the boy’. Ianto. His name was… no, he couldn’t. Not yet. Jones. That would have to do for now.

“Lisa…”

Oh, this wouldn’t do. He needed to come up with some way to keep the boy’s - Jones’ - mind focused on other things. Healthier things. Things that would help settle his mind after such trauma.

Hell, he should have offered some counselling when he started work. He should have taken the time to get to know him, to ask him questions about his life, instead of staring at his arse, or pursuing him down dark corridors. And that was galling, too - knowing that Jones actively sought him out, merely to keep his focus away from his nefarious activities. Christ - they fucked. A lot. He had to get out, leave the flat now. He was going to kill him, he could feel it. He didn’t have his Webley, so he couldn’t shoot the little fucker. But the urge to hit him, to bash on his head until he lay bleeding, dying - it was so strong, he wanted to scream and rage.

He turned and walked out of the room. Maybe he could still do something to help him. If he stayed away from him, didn’t look at him, didn’t speak to him, maybe he could do this. Maybe he could bring Jones out of the pit he was obviously falling into.

There wasn’t too much he could do at the moment, however. Nothing to clean in the kitchen - the stupid boy wasn’t eating. Nothing to clean in the bathroom - he wasn’t staying clean, either. He’d already thrown out the ruined suit and shirt discarded when he’d forced the drunken idiot into the shower. Although he wasn’t really drunk at that point, to be fair. He’d run all the alcohol out of his system.

Maybe that was the answer. He nodded, to nobody in particular. Yes. He would be here at 5.30am every morning, making Jones run until he fell over from exhaustion. Maybe even do it twice a day. Then he could force him to eat - he’d need the calories after that - and force him to keep clean. The exercise would exhaust him, allowing his bruised and battered mind some time to heal. After a couple weeks of that, they could then focus on healing his ruined psyche. Well, he could focus on that. He doubted Jones would be much beyond focusing on getting dressed.

No, this wasn’t going to work. He wanted to pull his hair in frustration, but he never resorted to messing with his own appearance. His focus was always on the other person. If he was frustrated, annoyed, he’d take it out on someone other than himself. Despite his little death quirk, he had a strong sense of self-preservation. He had focus, he had purpose. He still had a Doctor to find.

Aargh. This was getting him nowhere. It would be better for all if he left. He looked in on the boy again. He still slept, but it was obvious he was not far off waking. He didn’t think it prudent that he be in the flat when he crawled out of bed. He would be back later, ready to run the boy into the ground and put him back to bed.

He closed the door to the flat behind him, resting his hand on the old wood. He hesitated - he thought he heard something from inside. But no, there was only silence. It was time to get back to work. Some people still had the world to save.

~~~~~

Inside the flat, in the little bedroom, the forlorn figure of Ianto Jones stirred in his sleep.

“Lisa… no, not Jack. Not Jack.”


	4. Seethe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain. Not the I’ve-been-thrown-across-a-fucking-concrete-room pain, but something else.

Vague thoughts of blood and screams woke him. He felt nauseous as he dragged himself out of his unconscious state; the smell of blood was thick in his nostrils, and he could _feel_ it on his hands, knew it was soaked into his clothes.

He wanted to rage, and scream - and plead. Plead for a life… but whose? It should be… Oh, God, it should be Lisa. Lisa and Annie. And Tanazaki. So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that he was crying out to save somebody else? Gwen? No. Not her. Nothing against her, but she was fine. Well, maybe not fine - she did come very close to resembling sushi.

He laughed, a little hysterically, at the visual of Gwen sliced up on a rice and seaweed roll. A bolt of pain shot through his body - not the I’ve-been-thrown-across-a-fucking-concrete-room pain, but something else. Muscles, not used in many a long year. Legs tight and shaky, chest and stomach feeling the pull. The pain from… running. The run. Jack - no, not Jack. That fucking murderous bastard. There, that was better. He’d made him run. And run, and run, and run. Six days of morning and evening runs, forcing him to eat and shower and _move_ , when all he wanted to do was curl in a ball and forget the world. Not Lisa - no, never Lisa. Just everything else. He wanted to drown in his memories of what was, what should have been, what could have been.

He rolled off the bed, landing hard on his knees. Jesus fuck, he ached. Oh, he hated that bastard. He wanted to hit him, again and again. Watch him fall to the ground. Watch him bleed. Fuck, he wanted to watch him die, over and over again. Bring him back just to do it better, more viciously. Blood… no, no blood. Clean killing. Was there such a thing? Drowning, electrocution, hanging. Yes, he could do that. He’d gladly do that. Anything to make that prick suffer, as he suffered.

Hungry. Stomach rebelling. He stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet, heaving up whatever was forced into his stomach that morning. Not much, mostly bile. Christ, he felt like his stomach was inside out. Or the alien from Alien was clawing through the lining. What a colossal joke that would be. Because aliens are real. Would serve him right, to die by some grossly fantastic Hollywood rendition. Only what he deserved, really. God - Lisa, and that poor girl, and the doctor. It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

He caught a whiff of something rank. The toilet? Bile, puke - it all smelled foul. Like Weevils. Hysterical - maniacal - laughter again, turning to sobs. He buried his head against his knees. Pulled back suddenly. The smell - it was him. He should shower. Should. Might. No. Moving was too difficult, not just because of the muscle aches and pains. He just didn’t want to move. Didn’t ever want to move.

Footsteps. Boots on wood. Heavy, solid. Threatening. Steady. Hide, he should hide. No, fight. Yes, fight. Instead, he stayed curled on the floor of the bathroom. Hugging his knees, holding himself together simply by sheer will - or dumb luck.

The footsteps stopped, directly in front of him. Brown boots, grey wool trousers, the hems a little dirty. The bottom edge of a long coat. God, he loved that coat. Would always love that coat. Would do everything in his power to protect that coat.

But not the man wearing it. No. Him, he wouldn’t save. To save him would be to betray Lisa. He had to be strong, keep her always at the front of his mind. She deserved it. She deserved it. She deserved to live, fuck it, why wasn’t she alive? Why?

Why did she throw him across the Hub? Lisa - she, it - tried to kill him. No, it wasn’t his Lisa. She didn’t know what she was doing. Those words weren’t hers. She was still in there, fighting to get out. Yes. She could have been saved. He would remember that. She was still his Lisa and she could have been saved. But not _him_. She should have killed him.

He pulled at his hair, fighting the hands that tried to stop him. Confused. So confused. His Lisa wouldn’t kill, would never kill - but he wanted her to kill that fucker. Wanted her to do something that she would never do. Why? God, why wouldn’t he leave him alone. Just leave him. Leave.

Just leave. Leave now, and never come back. Choked laughter - he was hysterical, mad, insane. Gollum. He was quoting fucking Gollum and Smeagol in his head. His heart. His body.

Strong hands pulled him to his feet, soft and gentle, for all their strength. Steered him to his bed, pushed him down, pulled the covers over his body. Lay soft on his brow, caressing, loving. No, not loving. These hands murdered his love. These hands held his body, loving him. Sobs, great tearing, gut-wrenching, soul-screaming tears. The first since that… since. Small tears, yes, but not this. Not cathartic, and heart-breaking all at once.

A deep voice, soothing. “Sleep. Just relax... go to sleep, Jones."

A beat. "Ianto.”


	5. Torrent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anger is waning. Not gone, but less. Honesty now directed at himself. Anger, hurt - acceptance?

He looked down at the pale, too-skinny form sleeping in the bed. His fingers tightened, nails digging painfully into the palm. He didn’t want to hurt the kid, not anymore. Not really. The nail gouging was purely for his own benefit, a reminder that the boy hurt because of him. No, not because of him. In spite of him? No, not right either. Hurt because he’d not looked beyond the cute suits and pert arse to the deeper pain, so obvious in retrospect.

A solid haymaker punch, rather like the hefty one he’d received, still sounded good. But just one. Just to get it out of his system. Okay, maybe two. Or three. One for each of the dead bodies - four, if one counted Gwen’s near miss. Five, six; there was Tosh and Owen to consider, put in such immediate danger. Danger he couldn’t foresee, or stop, or prevent. Seven. One for himself. Seven punches - yeah, that should just about do it.

Or maybe the days of running should count instead. Six days, fifteen runs, if the one from this morning was included. It should be included. They needed to stop. The boy - Jones, he should remember to call him Jones - was now physically exhausted, as well as emotionally shattered. He wanted the boy - fuck it, Jones! - to heal, but to do that he needed breaking down and rebuilding.

He sighed. He wasn’t a psychotherapist, or psychologist. His experience extended to the battlefield, and not a whole hell of a lot further. Jesus, that’s why he should have seen the PTSD signs, the emotional cut-off, for what it was. PTSD, battle fatigue. Shell shock. Definitely shell-shocked. Should have known he… Jones, yes, needed a sounding board, a non-judgemental place to vent. Or confide. Confiding would have been good. Would, should, could. Useless to think about the past, constructive to focus on the future.

Still, what options did Jones have? What options had he thought he had? What options did he give him? Really, truly. He’d not been welcoming of anybody from One, not wanted him at all, not until he landed on him. Felt that firm body, saw the suit - and the interest. Definitely interest. Visible, blatant. Masked and suppressed.

His fingers tightened again. How much of that interest was real? How much feigned? Had to be real, at least physically. A woman might fake her way through the bedroom, but not a man. External plumbing. A dead giveaway every time. And was this the reason he was so fucking angry?

He walked out of the room. He thought he’d dismissed the fury, the urge to kill. Thoughts of that… that… A deep breath. Thoughts of Jones deliberately playing on his overt sexual nature, selling himself to buy safe conduct through the corridors of the Hub. It hurt. It hurt more than it should, and it didn’t stop hurting. Jones understood him. Oh, not just the con. He understood Jack, the man. He was his evening confidant. His voice of reason. His solace during death. During loss.

He had to acknowledge the truth. It wasn’t just the abuse of trust, bringing in such a deadly and dangerous threat to the Hub, to Cardiff, to the world. It was the slight to him, to Jack, that deeply stung. It hurt, like a knife to the heart. He’d started to relax, to think about spilling long-buried secrets. He’d thought he might have a chance at… at normal. No, not normal. Torchwood didn’t do normal. A chance at real. A real life, a real relationship, a real love. No, no, no. Not love. Never love. Couldn’t be love. Didn’t do love, not after Estelle. Estelle, who he still kept an eye on, but thought him his father’s son. He loved her still.

And he understood, finally, the reason - or lack of - behind Jones‘… behind Ianto’s actions. Love. Ianto asked him, dared him with his question, but he’d not listened, not honestly. Not wanted to face the truth behind the words. For Estelle - for Rose, and the Doctor, and even Mickey the Idiot - he’d most likely do the same thing. Maybe not the same thing. No cyber men. But the same thing. Moved heaven and hell and all the dimensions in between, to see them safe, cured, whole and happy.

He sat heavily on the sofa, head in hand. Ianto wasn’t trying to kill him, kill them. He wanted his love back, couldn’t see past the love to face reality. He couldn’t fault him. It still hurt, like a mother-fucking punch to the gut, a swinging fist with a hidden shiv, slicing him open and laying him bare. Why did it hurt so much? Because it involved his heart? No, not his heart. He never involved his heart. Only his body. But then it shouldn’t hurt so much. Just a fuck. A fabulous, incandescent, out-of-body fuck. A mind-fuck. So yeah, it involved his heart. Because if it was just fucking, just physical, it wouldn’t hurt. He would be able to see clearly, be objective.

A sound. Quiet footsteps. Always quiet. Silent. Like a ghost. Ghost shift. Ghosts. Unheard, unseen. Always unseen, unless he wanted otherwise.

He lifted his head, turning to the slow shuffle at the door. Bleary eyes, weary body. Drooping, sagging. Barely able to stand, to walk, to function. Pain so raw, worn as clothing, physical and visible. He’d caused this pain. He felt the same. Pain ached in him to match that which he saw standing there.

He stood, moving just as silently, to help the drained, somnolent body into the room. Placing him on the sofa, arranging him. Laying him down, propping his head. Covering his limbs with a crocheted throw. Incongruous. Out of place. Didn’t fit, yet did. Homey.

“Why?” Hoarse, croaking. Voice unused, too used. Cracking, like the joints that held the kid together.

“Why, what?” Soft. As soft as he could be. Fingers digging into his palm. Pain, remember why he’s here. Remember why it hurts. Hurts them both.

“Why… she… Lisa. She wasn’t… wasn’t mine. Why?”

A sigh. Falling down, always down. Onto the floor, through the floor, through the earth. Falling… forever? Some days, it sure felt like it. Today felt like it. Everyone fell - everything fell. Torchwood falling, hubris, arrogance. All the same. Fallen and gone.

“No. Not yours. Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a few days before I get another chapter up. I've injured my hand and typing is a real bitch. I promise I won't forget this.


	6. Beaten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why? Why is she dead and why does Jack act like he cares? It’s not possible for him to care. Is it?

He was on the couch in his living room. He didn’t know how - didn’t want to know how. His last thought, hardly coherent, was of his pillow. He turned his face; his pillow was beneath his head. Confusing. It should be on his bed. Wool - itchy, rough, coarse, smelling a little like a wet sheep, lanolin and lavender - pulled up to his chin. The afghan. Old, comfortable, crocheted by his grandmother for his mother, laundered carefully by Lisa. Lavender wool wash, her favourite.

He choked, tears threatening once again. He pushed the blanket off, the movement violent. The lavender, it was clawing at his throat, rising up, cloying and cutting off his ability to breathe. He would never be able to smell it again. The old throw would need cleaning, something different. No more lavender.

She was gone. Really, truly, honestly gone. No more smiles, soft words, sweet kisses. No more chance to hold warm skin, supple curves. She was his everything, and now she was his nothing. He lived just for her, and now he couldn’t even breathe for her. Because of her. Because of _him._ Bastard. Monster. Heartless fucker. _Saviour._

He was wrong, to put bullets into his sweet, innocent Lisa. And he was right. Right to shoot down the threat to them, to the Hub, to Cardiff and the world. To do it before anybody else was killed.

“Why?” His voice was rough. Unused for too long, scraped raw from screaming. In rage. In pain. In denial.

“Why, what?” Soft, gentle. Caring. No, murderous and monstrous.

“Why… she… Lisa. She wasn’t… wasn’t mine. Why?” A cry. Plaintive, hurting. God, he hurt all over, inside and out. His heart no longer beat. His heart was lying on a slab in the Hub. He was nothing. His heart was dead.

He was falling, falling forever, down, down, the abyss calling. Through the floor, through the earth. Everyone fell. Everything fell. Torchwood, his home, his work, his life. Gone, arrogance and hubris stealing his happiness. All gone, gone forever.

“No, not yours. Not anymore.” Still caring, still soft. No, no, no. Not him, he doesn’t care. He _killed_ her. He was a monster, a heartless fucking bastard who ripped his reason for being away. He was an uncaring, unloving… gentle, kind… bastard.

“How would you know? You never even gave her a chance!” Irrational, lashing out. Lay the blame on someone, everyone else. She _was_ still his, was still Lisa. Only she wasn’t, not at the end.

“Ianto--”

“No! Get out. You’re a monster. A monster who killed--” choking, unable to finish. God, this was so wrong. She was good, she was _alive_ damn it, before that thing inside her took over, suppressing and killing her goodness, her kindness, her _soul._

“God fucking damn it, Jones. Quit pushing me away. I’m trying to help!” Loud, angry. Just like him. This was good. He wanted anger, hatred. It was easier to deal with than this strange empathy. Jack fucking Harkness didn’t have any empathy. He couldn’t. He’d pointed a gun at him (just as he’d pointed one at Jack), told him to shoot - to kill - his love. No way could he have any feelings at all.

“Why? Why do you care at all? You can’t care. You’re a heartless fucking bastard, Jack fucking Harkness! You have no soul. You’re a… a, a Dalek. Exterminate! Exterminate!” Rude, raw, shouting. Screaming. Screaming like Lisa, like his friends, like Torchwood burning.

The blow was quick, too fast to dodge in his tired and weakened state. It glanced off his jaw, as if the punch was pulled at the very last second. Still stung, as a fucking punch to the face should. His ears were ringing. But was it from the blow, or the anger-fuelled tirade? Truth be told, he was a little ashamed of himself. The words, he didn’t really mean them. Didn’t he? He hated Jack, Harkness, the Boss. Hated him enough to want to kill him. Except, maybe he didn’t.

Could he really want to see a lover - no, not a lover. Lover implied love, or at the least, some form of care. Harkness didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Heartless fucking bastard. Must remember. Just a fuck. Just a diversionary fuck, to keep him away from Lisa, his heart, his life.

A diversionary fuck that he sought out. That he actively looked for, when stress began to eat at him. A fuck that he liked to spend time with, to talk to, to have a drink with. A fuck who was more - who was a lover. No, no, no. That meant that he was cheating on Lisa. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t, no, no, no. Everything he did, he did for her, for them. Only not that. No, not really. It was all for him. The best sex of his life. He could have stopped. Should have stopped. Found another way to divert the bastard’s - kind, caring, loving bastard’s - attention. He was intelligent, wasn’t he? He could have done that. But he didn’t.

Soft hands on his face, turning it to the light. He couldn’t open his eyes. Wouldn’t open his eyes. Didn’t want to see the anger directed at him. The shame. The loathing.

“God, I didn’t want--” Quiet. A deep breath. “All right, I did. I wanted to hit you. But not now. Before. Damn it, Ianto.”

“I’m not sorry.” Mumbled. Shamed. _Sorry._

“Neither am I.” The hands let him go, the sofa moving as a large, heavy weight is shifted off. Footsteps across his floor, stopping in the entry.

“I’m not sorry I hit you, Ianto. I am sorry that you’re hurting.”

The door closes, leaving behind only silence.

“I’m not sorry you hit me, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my finger is still very sore. This impacts my story as much as my typing. I'm usually hitting the keys about as fast as I think, which works for this story. Stream of consciousness, and all that. My pace at the moment is a fair bit slower, so this chapter may not flow as well as the others.


	7. Flattened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt so good to hit the damn kid. Except that it didn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt him.

He pulled shut the door to the dingy little flat carefully, not letting it hit the frame any harder than a soft breeze would push it closed. He really wanted to slam it, to yank on it with such force it would buckle the frame. To then turn around and kick it, kick until the latch broke and the wood hanged from the hinges like a drunken tart off a sailor. A pirate from a gibbet. A limp flag up a pole.

He took a deep breath. He was beyond such anger. Should be beyond it. Wasn’t really beyond it. The little fucker didn’t know, couldn’t know, how his words would burn. How they would burrow and fester, linger and rot. How the very mention of a Dalek would send him into a tailspin of panic, mind reverting to the fear he felt as he faced his doom.

‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’. Words he never wanted to hear thrown in his direction ever again. Jones couldn’t know the chill that sat over his body when reports from the Battle rolled in, of heartless and emotionless metal monsters deleting at will. Of murderous tin pots; flying, deadly, rampaging iron pepper shakers, with toilet plunger weapons and single-minded determination to kill everything in sight. The absolute scariest thing he’d ever encountered, from anywhere in the Universe, in any time. Jones couldn’t possibly know how with even one mention of them his insides would try to shrivel and die, to bury themselves so deep in his body he can’t even draw breath into his lungs. He couldn’t know, because he - Jack - had never told him. Not told anyone, not in many a long year.

To be compared - hell, it hurt, more than any other vile insult thrown his way, it hurt. He might be a monster, by the very definition Jones used, but by all that was holy, in all the known galaxies, through all of space and time, he was not - not - a fucking mindless killing machine. He wasn’t! He cared. He cared so much that to do what he had to left scars too deep to heal. He bled each and every time he sentenced someone - something - to die.

God, he’d really hoped that Jones could be the confidant he never knew he needed. Now, the tenuous trust between them was gone, shattered in one electrical charge and a throw across the floor. He wasn’t sure it could ever be fixed. Should ever be fixed. The betrayal ran too deep. Was there any way for them to get beyond this? Probably not if the boy couldn’t work past his anger. His hatred, of Jack, and of his actions. Jack’s actions? Or his own? He couldn’t decide which drove the boy to such rigid fury more.

Oh, but hitting him. It felt so damn good. And it hurt like a son of a bitch. Not the physical act. Inside. His stomach ached and his heart clenched at the idea of hurting his own team members. Even when faced with a gun, threatened with death, he was still reluctant to do anything violent in response. Witness Suzie. He stood there and took the bullet to the head without flinching, never using his own weapon in defence. Same thing with Jones - should have shot him immediately. But no. He couldn’t. He wasn’t a cold, heartless monster. He wasn’t.

He should go. Should leave the kid alone for a few days. Let him stew. Calm down. Grieve. Only he couldn’t. No. The risk of Jones doing something stupid and irreversible to himself was too great. If Jones - Ianto - wasn’t monitored, he could hurt himself. Possibly kill himself. He needed to be here, as often as the Rift permitted. At least twice a day, maybe more during quiet times.

He had to look beyond the words. He had to accept that Ianto was just lashing out, fighting at the only thing, the only person who bothered to care. But why did he care? Was it guilt? Guilt for not seeing him? Guilt for taking advantage of the delights laid out for him? He was so young, so damaged. Christ, he should have seen it. Why didn’t he see it? It was so obvious. The weight loss. The circles under the eyes. The extreme quiet.

Except when he wasn’t. The boy knew exactly what he wanted and liked when it came to sex. Not shy. Vocal and involved. Gave as good as he got. Didn’t ask, but took. Took and returned the favour, tenfold. Best fuck of his life. Which was saying something. Even his long ago wife, his sweet Estelle, Lucia, that man from the 20’s he tried hard not to think about because of what happened - all of them paled in comparison. Hell, even his psychotic ex from the Time Agency couldn’t match up. And he’d had five fucking years over the same two weeks to teach that man new tricks. Still couldn’t hold a candle to Jones.

But it was more than the sex. Should be more. Ianto was just so right. They fit together, like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle. Yin and yang. Balance and counter-balance. Ianto tempered him, kept him grounded in the reality of the 21st century. The Doctor could be here any day. Should be here any day. He was prone to flights of fancy at the heady thought of finding him, of being fixed, of travelling once more. Ianto kept him in the here and now, a functioning leader of Torchwood. Not an addle-pated airhead dreaming of better things. Fuck, he needed Ianto. Needed him as more than a fine arse and cute suit. Wanted him as more.

Just wanted him, period.

Fuck. 


	8. Churning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was horrified. Why? Why did he say that? Why couldn’t he get it right?

God, he just wanted to die. Why couldn’t he get anything right? He was supposed to be living his happy ever after with Lisa. Not curled on the couch with old wool tucked under his chin, crying because the man he fucked - both figuratively and literally - chucked him a solid one to the chin. A blow that he more than deserved. For screwing him over, for using him, for putting the team and the world in danger. For calling him a monster. For calling him a Dalek.

Oh, he knew. He knew that the last was a blow too low. Knew enough about the Captain to read the fear and pain those hateful words caused. ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’. There was nothing official written about Harkness. Just supposition and careful deduction. But he knew. He knew that man had met Daleks before the Battle. He’d read the carefully written reports Harkness made after the Battle. Knew the words contained within them as if he’d written them himself. Because Jack let just a little too much emotion leak onto those papers. He could see, hear, taste, feel the fear behind the words. He knew it all, because it was the same feeling for him.

He knew they were connected. By more than the job, the flirting and innuendo. By more than the sex. God, the sex. But he knew. They were the same. Only not. Harkness was older. Not the standard ten years everybody assumed when they looked at him. No. Harkness was old enough to be his grandfather. His great-grandfather. Possibly twice over. Records only went back so far. He didn’t know how, but he knew. They were the same lost soul. Hurting, wanting. Seeking the same from another, a means of solace in the singularity of their joint suffering.

But he didn’t want to know. To know meant that he would have to care. He didn’t want to care. Not about him. Not about Jack. Jack killed his love. Except he didn’t. He killed his own love. Except he didn’t, either. He merely prolonged the inevitable. She was dead. Dead long before he brought her to Cardiff. Probably dead as soon as the first knife touched her beautiful coffee skin. Dead even when screaming. Dead as he dragged her off the table, across the floor. Dead as he carried her out of the burning building. Dead as he cared for her in the Hub. Dead as she - it - killed Tanazaki-san, and Annie, and… God, she killed Jack. He knew. Dead, dead, dead, all fucking dead.

He howled, pain so raw it ate at his throat. God, what had he done? She was dead, long dead, and he’d nearly killed them all. Killed Jack. Killed his second chance at love. No, not love. Jack didn’t love. Couldn’t love. Monsters didn’t love. Except when they did. It might not be love yet, but it could have been. Should have been. But now it wouldn’t. Jack should have killed him. Put a bullet into his brain, just as he’d done to Annie/Lisa. Just like they all did. Killed his love. His love was dead. His love could live. No. It was gone. All chance of love gone. Gone like Lisa.

Gone like Jack. Out the front door. Out of his life. One hit to the chin and gone. He deserved it. Deserved to be alone. To have to live forever with the guilt.

He was so guilty. Guilty of theft. Of lying. Of attempted murder. Lisa’s murder. No, not him. Them. Guilty of lying to Jack. Yes.

He pulled at his hair, the pain not nearly enough. He wanted to rage and scream. Not about the injustice of it. Not now. He wanted to cry for the lost chance. The chance, maybe, to have his happy ever after. A happy ever after with Jack. Well, as ever after as Torchwood allowed.

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it. Fucking. Nothing more than that. Except it was. He couldn’t fake that. Might have tried, at first. But he kept going back, didn’t he. Kept selling himself, his soul, his body. Craved the touch of a human, of a warm body, of Jack. Should feel some shame that he was fucking a man - just a fuck - when his _girl_ was still breathing, still alive. Not alive. But alive. Shit. No shame, though. It was what he’d wanted, craved. Needed all the time. To feel loved, cared for. Starved for human companionship, that was all. But not. It wasn’t just any human, no - it was Jack. He just wanted Jack. Still wanted Jack. Didn’t want to want him, to need him. All the same. Not the same.

Never going to have it again. No love, love is dead. No companionship, nobody would want him. Damaged goods. No sex. Anonymous sex? Possibly. But he wasn’t Owen. Couldn’t do that. Felt too much, hurt too much. God, he wanted Lisa. Jack. Lisa.

He lurched off the couch, tangled in old wool. Toilet. Sink. Anything. Sick. Christ, going to vomit, stomach turning inside out. Rats chewing on his guts. He barely made it to the bathroom. Barely made proper obeisance before praying fervently to the porcelain god. The truth was making him sick. The truth of wanting Lisa. And wanting Jack.

The truth that he wanted Jack more than he ever wanted Lisa. And Lisa is - was, should have been - his everything.

Fuck. 


	9. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid was right - he was a monster. But not like he thought.

He pushed the door open, wary of sharp objects and equally sharp curses. He knew he wasn’t welcome. The kids’ words from the morning still burned across his mind. Still churned in his stomach. Like acid. Eating him from the inside out. Dalek, he called him. No, he wasn’t. He was a good man. A hard man, having to make the hard decisions, but still a good man. Wasn’t he? Or was he still the lying, cheating bastard he’d been long ago. Had Torchwood taken all the hard work and influence of the Doctor and warped him again? Or was that just him? A leader who didn’t want the job, forced into situations he had no business handling, making the decisions nobody else would make. Could make. Out of his time, out of his depth.

Oh, who was he kidding. Jones was right. He was a monster. Maybe not as he thought, but yeah, still a monster. A monster because he failed. He failed to take care of his own, and that was unforgivable. He may have hired Ianto because he was interested in more than his resume - okay, the only reason he hired him was because he was interested in Jones the man, not Jones the hired help. The new team member. A valued person around the Hub. All he could see was hot. Hot in a suit, hot in jeans, hot in his arms.

But looking beyond the arse and the spectacular lay, the boy was good. He squashed a leer before it had a chance to form. So the boy was good in more ways than one. It was his work that he needed to focus on, not his… other attributes. And what attributes they were. No. Not helping.

Ianto was a damn fine member of his team. He was hard working, always ready with whatever was needed, usually before anybody else knew they required said item. He was intuitive, caring, conscientious, intelligent. And yeah, looked damn fine in the suits. He shrugged. No point trying to deny his basic nature. He just needed to look beyond the physically obvious. Ianto was needed, as a team member, in the Hub, out of the Hub. In their lives. In his life.

He moved further into the flat. No sign of the kid. The blanket he’d been curled under lay on the floor, trailing towards the bedroom and bathroom. Paper tossed on the floor, evidence of rapid passage past the small coffee table. Where was he? Fear, distinct and real, clenched in his chest. His heart. The flat was silent, too silent. The boy could be asleep. Or not. What if he wasn’t? What if he…

Shit, shit, shit. He picked up his pace, running past the couch and into the small hall. He stopped first at the bathroom, dreading what he might see. A body, drowned in a cold bath. Huddled on the floor, drenched in water and blood. Hanging from the shower rod. Anything.

Instead, he saw the form of Jones, wrapped around the toilet, head down on the closed lid, eyes shut. He stepped in, reached out to find a pulse. Strong, distinct. Thank fuck. . He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He lived. Well, breathed. Same, same at the moment. One step at a time.

“Ianto? Ianto, come on. Up.”

“Fuck off.”

“No. Get up off the floor.”

“Why? My life is in the toilet, might as well stay here.” Defeated. That was the only word he could think of to describe Jones. He sounded worse than ever.

He moved his hand from where it still rested against his neck. Wrapped his fingers around an arm. Pulled and tugged, moving the other far too easily. Jones was a big man, as big as him, yet he moved him as easy as a child. Weak, unresisting. Fuck, this was so much harder than he thought it would be.

He wrapped his arm around shoulders too thin, thoughts fixed on walking him out of the bathroom. Wasn’t at all prepared for a sudden move, an armful of desperate man. Hands reaching, groping, tugging on buttons, pulling at braces, undoing his buckle. Distracted by grabbing hands, Jones moved in for the kill. His knee pushed between his legs, firm pressure applied. He could feel his body responding, remembering, wanting. He gasped, and Jones lunged, tongue plundering his open mouth. Shit, it was glorious. Hot, messy, desperate.

Wrong. So wrong. This was not good. Not good for the boy, not good for him. Them. A return to their previous ways, now… no. No, he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. But it felt so good, so right. Like it always did.

Yet not. The desperation was new. Not for him; he was always desperate for more of Ianto. He was addictive. It was Jones. There was none of his usual finesse. No passion, just a mad rush to finish the job. No connection.

Christ. Stop. He needed to stop, now, before it was too late. Needed to push the boy away. Distance. He needed distance. Physical space between their bodies. Now!

He planted his hands on the kid’s chest. Pushed as hard as he could, hard enough to slam him into the wall opposite. And again, when Jones came back for another try.

“Jesus, Ianto. Stop!”

“No! So close. I need it!” Still desperate, and plaintive. The cry of a child, lost and hurt. The cry of a man on the brink.

“No! Not… not like this. You don’t want this.” Breath straining.

“I do! Now!” Reaching out, hands grasping whatever they could. Knees buckling, falling to the floor. Crawling forward, destination obvious.

Time for more hard decisions.

“Well, I don’t. I don’t want you, Jones. Not any more.” Lies. All of it.

A gasp, pained. Like a slap, vicious and hard. He could see the shock in his eyes. He had to close his own, but the vision stayed.

As he suspected it always would. 


	10. Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck him. He didn't need him. Didn't need any of them.

He was gone. Turned and walked out immediately after ripping his heart out. Left him bleeding, dying. Well, fuck him. Not literally. Seemed that ship was well out to sea, no chance of boarding now. Still. Fuck him. He didn’t need him. Didn’t need any of them. Except Tosh. He liked Tosh. And Gwen. Annoying as hell sometimes, yeah, but he still liked her. Most of the time. Even Owen. He didn’t mind Owen, despite the constant barbs. He’d keep the team, then. Just not Harkness. He didn’t need Harkness.

Except he did. He really did. He didn’t know why. Right. The sex. Best ever. No, not that. Not just that. He needed Jack. As a friend, a confidant. Somebody more than his boss. He didn’t want to. He just did. He liked Jack. Shit. No, no, no. He didn’t like him. He killed his Lisa. His love, his future. He killed his heart. Ripped it out and stomped all over it.

He could do this. He could heal. He knew it. Didn’t know it. Felt it. He looked at his watch. Time never moved. Didn’t seem like any time at all since his world caved in. Felt like forever. His watch wasn’t helpful, lying on his wrist in mute supplication. Offering him the time, but not telling him how long. Useless. He needed something else. A calendar.

He staggered to his feet. How long had he lain on the floor outside his toilet? Days? Weeks? No, just minutes. Forever and no time at all. The kitchen. The calendar was in the kitchen. Small, magnetic, on his fridge. He looked at the tiny, white appliance. The calendar was there, just above… fuck. His favourite photo of Lisa. Warm, dark skin, glowing in the sun. Lying on the grass, eyes closed, small smile playing on her lips. Beautiful. So beautiful. And gone. No more.

He squeezed his eyes closed. He pictured her in his head, laughing, being silly. But all he could see was blood. Blood and metal and death. Screams, desperate pleas for help, burning flesh, blood-covered plastic. God. Canary Wharf. The Hub. It all blended into one. He couldn’t see his Lisa. Only _them_ , the metal men, ghosts no longer ghosts, marching their prey through the halls.

A sharp pain in his palm jerked him out of his waking nightmare. He looked down; the photo lay crumpled in his hand, his fingernails digging into the soft skin. He was bleeding. Bleeding just like them. Just like her. But the photo. He’d ruined the photo. God. He unclenched his fingers, carefully straightening the edges. No good. Her perfection was ruined with creases, oh Christ, and blood. He’d bled all over the glossy paper. No. He tried to wipe it clean, but it just smeared further, drying in streaks across her face.

Tears started to fall, landing on the photo and bubbling the surface. Shit, shit, shit. Ruined. All ruined. All gone, all over. He collapsed on the floor, sobbing into the photo, no longer caring about preserving the image. Some small part of him, the last rational part of his brain, recognised this as cathartic. Well needed, and long overdue. If he was to heal, to get past this (this, not Lisa, just this) then he needed to let it all out. Shed all this, like a snake and its skin. A new beginning.

A new beginning with the team. He could give them proper attention now. He wasn’t dead, or retconned. If not by now, then never. He’d be going back. Back to invisibility, yes, but his choice - no, his penance now. He needed them, didn’t care if they didn’t notice him. He just needed to be there. To work. To help. To clean up their shit and _not care_ that they left it all for him.

Lies. He cared. He cared that they never noticed him. Never asked about him. Never included him. The new girl saw more action than he did. Not that he resented her, not for that. She was hired to replace Suzie, an active field agent. He was not. Dogsbody and gopher, that was all he was. All he’d ever been, even at One. Junior researcher, his bloody arse. His job was in the Archives, but it was free time only that allowed him the chance to look at the files. The rest of the time it was ‘fetch this, clean that‘. No different than Three. Well, a little different. No lecherous boss. No gorgeous, hot, addictive man to fall for. No, not fall for.

Fall a little bit. Maybe more than a little. A lot. No. Yes. More than a spectacular shag. No, couldn’t think of him like that. Not anymore. He didn’t want him. Jack didn’t want him, not anymore. Pushed him away. Ripped out his heart - what was left - and mashed it into carpet. After twisting a knife through it. Kissed him and then killed him.

Wait. Wait - he kissed him. Jack kissed him. Well, he kissed Jack. But Jack kissed him back. Not just a little. Didn’t just hold still while he attacked him. Active. Jack was active and participating fully. He could feel him. He was hard. As hard as himself. Jack wanted him. It couldn’t be faked. Maybe he didn’t want to, but his body did. And he would bet his worthless life that wasn’t all. It couldn‘t be faked. The lust and passion they’d shared. It was real. That sort of thing couldn’t be turned off that quickly. Put on hold, yes. With trust destroyed between them, and the ghosts - god, still the ghosts - of Lisa staring at them both, it was gone for now. But not forever. No. he could get it back. It would just take work. Work and patience. He had patience.

He carefully put the destroyed photo back on the fridge, smoothing across her face gently. He looked at the calendar. Three weeks. Three weeks since they killed her. No. Seven months since she died. Three weeks since they saved the world. Did what he couldn’t. Killed the threat. Not his Lisa. One more week of suspension. One more week to get his shit together, to clean up the flat, himself, everything. To put her things away. Not to forget her. Never forget her. But he needed to move on. Move forward. He needed to live, not for her, but for himself.

He could do this. Shower, shave, shopping. Food. He needed food, toiletries. Boxes. Shit, he needed boxes to pack up all her clothes. All the little things of hers he’d put out, hoping she’d enjoy seeing them again. They needed to go. Let somebody else enjoy them now.

A new home. A new start. Leave the photos, but put them all - nearly all - away. Not the one on the fridge. He needed the reminder. And the one on the mantel, of them together. That could stay. The rest, though. Yes. To earn the trust of the team - of Jack - he needed to start now. He could do this.

He straightened. His new life started now. 


	11. Rotation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was a failure. A monstrous failure who’d let one of his own down. He didn’t deserve to lead.

Christ. Some leader. A failure. In all ways. Suzie was dead. Gwen fucked up her first day. And Ianto played him for a fool. Hiding a fucking Cyberman in his Hub. His basement. Hell, his home. Half a bloody year. And not just fucking with his mind. His body, too. Too much. He couldn’t do it. It was obvious. He should have seen it. Should have noticed. But no. He was a failure.

Not just then. Not just about the Cyberman. He’d failed then and again three days ago. Should have seen Jones - Ianto - make his move. Should have realised that he would react like he did. Been prepared. Stopped him, before it could happen. Made it clear. Clear that sex wasn’t the answer. Couldn’t be the answer. The quick fix.

Instead, he fell under. Kissed back. Hardened. Grew desperate. Barely made himself stop. And then he’d lied. Lied in the worst way possible. Told Ianto he didn’t want him. Didn’t want the sex, now or in the future. Lies, all of it lies.

God, he wanted him still. Now. But it was wrong. He knew it was wrong. Timing. Could definitely be better. He was a bastard, of the worst sort, but he’d never take that sort of advantage. Even if he very nearly did. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. And now he knew he couldn’t go back. Couldn’t take back the words, the hurt. He saw. He saw it as the poor kid’s shattered heart broke all the way. Monster. Yeah. That was him.

Still, he needed to keep an eye on the kid. It was his job. More than his job. He needed to know that Jones would be okay. Would heal. He wanted him back. Back at Torchwood. Back as his friend. Back in his life. It would take a long time. The trust was gone. It could be rebuilt. Baby steps. He needed him back at Torchwood first. Whole. Maybe not happy, not yet. But functioning.

He owed him. For his failure, Jack owed Ianto the chance to earn back his trust. So he couldn’t leave him alone. He just couldn’t go in while the kid was there. So he watched. Watched and waited. Hoping. More than three days now. Couldn’t be here all the time, still had the world to save. Might have missed him. Probably did miss him. Still, he needed to know. Had to know. He would go in, check for himself if he didn’t see Ianto within the next day. Needed to know he was okay. Was alive. He needed him alive. He needed him.

There. Finally. He watched from across the street, careful to stay hidden. There - Ianto was out of his flat. He looked… not good, but better. Clean. Shaven. Still thin, too thin. But moving. Not smiling. Might be a long time before he saw him smile again. He missed the smiles. Didn’t deserve to see them, though. Ianto was right, he was a monster. A failure and a monster.

He watched as Ianto slowly walked to his car, a large box in hand. Loaded it quickly, then ducked back into the flat. Emerged with another box. And another. He waited and watched, as he moved more boxes into his car. Was he moving? Clearing out? No, he couldn’t. Couldn’t leave. Wasn’t allowed to leave. He needed him. Torchwood needed him. He needed him more. Shit, shit, shit. What was he going to do? He had to get inside. Had to.

Had to wait for Jones. Couldn’t just barge in. He could just barge in. But he knew that was a bad idea. A mistake as soon as he thought it. There - Jones was getting in his car. Now. This was his chance. He could get in now. And then what? He didn’t know what. He didn’t know what he’d do once he was inside. He just felt like he needed to get in. To look around, make sure all was in order.

Stupid. Of course it must be in order. Jones was out. Obviously clean, taking care of himself. But it could be more. Would he find the flat full of boxes? Dust clothes over furniture? Shit. He had to know. He moved quickly. Ianto could be back any moment. He didn’t know where he was going. Could be around the corner. Could be across town. Quick. He had to be quick.

He still had his key. Used it to get in, closing the door quietly behind him. Let out a breath. Loudly. Nothing. Nothing wrong. The flat looked as it always did. Well, no. Actually it didn’t. It was clean. What was different? He moved into the living room. Looked all around. His eye fell on the mantel. There. Different. Only one picture now of Ianto and Lisa. No knick-knacks. He looked at the bookcases, the window. Clean. Really clean. As in nothing. No more bits and pieces set out. Bare. But not empty. No more feminine touches.

That was it. Ianto was clearing out Lisa’s things. That must be what was in the boxes. He moved to the bedroom, opened the closet. Suits. Shirts. Shoes. All masculine. No dresses, no heels, no skirts. No women’s clothes in the drawers. No photos on the nightstand. Nothing. Just a clean room.

He checked the bathroom. No women’s products in the cupboard, no perfume above the sink. No touches to indicate a woman might live there - or could have lived there. Would have lived there. Nothing.

The kitchen was the same. Tidy, sparkling. He opened the fridge. Fresh food. Milk. Good. Ianto was eating. He could smell coffee. His mouth watered. He was tempted to fill a cup. Stupid. Ianto would know. He always knew. He closed the fridge door. He was good. No worries. His eye fell on the photo on the fridge door. Crumpled, water stained, bloody. He lifted it carefully off, fingers just holding the edges.

Lisa. Beautiful. He could see Ianto and her together. He could see why Ianto fell in love. Her goodness radiated from the photo, even with the blood smeared across her face. But why? Why was the photo so damaged? He vaguely remembered it from earlier trips. He didn’t recall any blood, or water stains. It was whole, undamaged. What happened?

An idea hit him. An idea so pure it blinded him. A way to show Ianto he cared. He could see about fixing the photo. See if the damage could be corrected. She was too beautiful to stay like this. He started to put it into his pocket, then stopped. No. He couldn’t just take it. Ianto would know. He always knew. He lay it on the counter. Flipped open his wrist-strap. Pushed a few buttons and watched carefully as a blue light scanned over the photo. Satisfied, he put the picture back on the fridge, looked around one last time, and walked out.


	12. Eddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d lied to them and to himself. He’d lied to her. Made her suffer. Made them suffer. No more. It was time to move forward. Start again.

He looked about his bedroom. It was neat, tidy. Clean. Devoid of all womanly touches. A masculine room, for a single man. It hurt. God it hurt, like rats and knives. He missed her so much. She would never again stand in the doorway, Mae West style. Never again lay across their bed, Marilyn Monroe-esque. Never be soft and sweet in his arms, responding to his every move. She was gone. Had been gone for far longer than the one month since all hell broke loose.

Seven months. Seven months of lying to himself. Of hiding a monster. Of deceiving the team. Of deceiving Jack. He’d lied to them and to himself. He’d lied to her. Made her suffer. Made them suffer. No more. It was time to move forward. Start again.

So hard. They would hate him. They did hate him. No contact. None. Not even Owen, beyond the first night. Only Jack. Was it orders? Could be orders. Could just be they didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want anything to do with him. He’d called Jack a monster. But he was wrong. He was the monster, for nearly killing them all.

But he would make it up to them. He would work hard. Earn their trust. He knew he was needed there. The Hub was a disaster when he first walked in. Nobody cared for the work area. Nobody cared about the residents. Nobody cared about the Archives and the artefacts. Nobody cared. Except Jack.

Jack cared. He cared about the pteranadon. Myfanwy, they called her. He cared about the Weevils. He cared about the team. He cared about Ianto. He knew now that it was caring that made Jack shoot. It was caring that stopped Jack from shooting him. From retconning him. Could be penance. Probably was penance. But also care. He knew that now.

He had so much trust to make up. The lies and deceit. Their relationship. The sex. The words. Christ, the words. Never again. Why did he say that? Why? Lower than low. The worst thing ever to say. Wrong. So wrong. He was wrong. He was right. No, Jack was right. Right to kill her - it. Not Lisa. Not any more. She was gone. He had to remember. Long gone. Time to move forward.

He straightened. Reached into his wardrobe and pulled out a suit. Dark grey, subtle stripe. No waistcoat. White shirt. Sombre tie. He was still in mourning. Couldn’t wear black, though. Slap in the face. Their faces. No. Dark, but not black. Mourn, but not hard. Remember. He needed to make a good impression. Make them see he was serious about his return. He needed them. They needed him. He needed Jack - them.

He checked the bathroom. Made sure all was in order for the morning. His alarm. Did he set it? Had to be early. Couldn’t be late on his first day back. Needed to make a good impression. Even if they didn’t notice him. Didn’t deserve to be noticed. Should be ignored. Deserved to be ignored.

One last coffee. No. Tea. Coffee. Tea was Lisa’s drink. Coffee. He walked to the kitchen, eyes straying to the photo on the mantel. The only thing left of them both. Sitting on the blanket, under the sun. Bunny ears behind his head. Wine in hand. Big smiles. It hurt to look at it. He needed to look at it. Had to remember. Needed to remember.

Coffee. Water, grounds, cafetiere. Jug. Boil water. Moving without thinking. Good. Automatic. Grounds in cafetiere. Hot water. Sit. Watch. Press. Pour coffee.

He turned and leaned against the counter. He was good. Not good. But better. Better than he thought he would be. He still hurt. Like a son of a bitch. Pain so raw. But better, yeah.

A knock at the door startled him. He looked at his watch. It was late, much later than he thought. Eleven. Who? Right. Jack. Who else? Why? He was coming back. It was known. Agreed. No retcon. No killing. Back to Torchwood. Why was Jack there?

He opened his door. The man himself stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a large envelope.

He stared at him. What did he say? Should he be polite? Should he be rude? Not say anything? God. Just thinking about their last moments together - the bastard shot him down. It might have been the right thing to do, but surely… surely he could have found some other way? Kinder? Or could that sort of rejection ever be kind? He could feel rage building again. This wasn’t good. He didn’t want to be angry. He needed to keep calm, but still. He was so angry. Not about Lisa. Not any more. Angry about them. What could have been. What was. What should have been.

He lashed out and hit him before he could think any further. The blow was solid, harder even than that awful night. Jack staggered back, hitting the far wall hard. He made no move to defend himself, other than to touch his lip with the back of his hand. Hell, one hand was still buried in his coat.

They stared at each other. No words. Words all gone. Just like Lisa. Gone. Shit. Why did he do that? The bastard deserved it. No. Even if that were true, it was no way to start rebuilding trust. God. Jack was going to kill him. It would be only fitting. He braced himself for a blow that never landed.

“You have one hell of a right hook, Ianto.” Rueful. Apologetic? Why? What did he have to apologise for? It was Ianto who owed all the sorry’s in the world. Sorry wasn’t even enough. Never good enough. Loyalty. Trust. Sorry. Anger. Still angry. Shouldn’t be angry, yet he was. He felt good about hitting Jack. Liked seeing the pain on his face, the split in his lip, the blood on his chin. Liked to know that it was him. He was the one who did that.

“What do you want? Come to finish the job?” Defiant. Shit, shouldn’t be defiant. Couldn’t help it.

“No. Can I come in? Please?” Jack was asking. Pleading. Waiting for permission. A whole month and this was the first time. Why?

He stood aside, opening the door wider, scared to open his mouth. Jack moved forward, stopping awkwardly in the kitchen door.

“Back to work tomorrow. You, ah… you looking forward to it?”

“Why are you here, Jack. What do you want?”

A sigh. Jack held out the envelope, holding it still until he took it. He looked at it curiously. No markings. Nothing to indicate the contents.

“What’s this? A P45? You going to retcon me after all?” Cynical. Stupid. Why would he ask that? Jack just asked him if he was looking forward to returning. Was he trying to get killed?

“No. Open it. It’s something for you. I thought… Just open it, please.”

He looked at the envelope again. Thin. Probably only one item. Not what he dreaded, then. What though?

His fingers trembled as he slipped them under the flap. The glue was tight. Fresh. He struggled a bit, finally freeing the opening. He peered inside. As he thought, just one piece of paper. A photo. He tipped it out. His breath caught. His knees buckled. He managed to put the photo down on the counter as he slid to the floor.

“Shit! Ianto, you okay?” Concern. Jack was kneeling down in front of him. He looked worried.

“Lisa… it’s Lisa.” He tipped his head up, towards the photo on the fridge. He didn’t look right at it. Couldn’t look right at it. He needed to remember her, but the blood and creases, they marred her perfection. Like the metal marred her skin.

“Yeah. I saw the damage--”

“When? When were you in here?” Anger. Still so much anger.

“I was watching you. I thought you were leaving. I had to check.” An answer. Not an answer. Typical Jack. Only say the very minimum. Never enough.

“When?” Adamant. He needed to be firm. Had to know. Didn’t Jack see that? Lies and half-truths. They couldn’t do that. If Ianto was to trust Jack - if Jack was to trust Ianto - then it needed to be all or nothing. And nothing wouldn’t work. Not with Torchwood. Not for them.

“Wednesday. You carried boxes out to your car. A lot of them.”

“Oh.” The day he gave away Lisa. Lisa’s things. Fresh start. Fresh pain.

“Yeah. I was sc… worried. Came in while you were out. Saw that you cleaned out some things. I noticed the photo on my way through the kitchen.”

“How?”

“Huh? It’s on the fridge. How else?”

Eye roll. Familiar. Felt weird. Felt good. “No. How did you fix the photo? It’s still on the fridge. You didn’t take it with you.”

“Oh. No. Couldn’t. You’d have noticed.”

He nodded. That was the truth. Even if he never looked directly at the picture on his fridge, he was acutely aware of its presence. If it disappeared, he would know.

“I scanned it.” Jack held up his wrist, indicating the large leather band. Handy. Wonder what other marvels it could manage? He’d always been curious about the bloody thing. Never far from Jack. Never.

“Are you okay? You want to look at the picture now?” Jack stood, hand on the counter where the envelope and photo lay.

He thought. Part of him wanted to hit Jack again. Hard. The rest of him, though, knew he should accept the gesture for what it was; a gift, made in good faith. For all that Jack was letting himself into his flat when he wasn’t there. Bastard.

He nodded again. He was ready. He stood slowly. Still dizzy. Lack of decent food, probably. And shock. Definitely shock. He looked down at the counter. At the photo. It was bigger than the original. Brighter. No creases, no blood, no tearstains. It was perfect. She was perfect. It was a picture that deserved to be in a frame. He carefully slipped it back into the envelope. He didn’t want to risk it.

“Thank you. It’s…” Words failed. He never ran out of words. He may not speak much, but if called on, he always had something to say. Even if it was only ‘no’.

“She was beautiful, Ianto. You should remember her like this. Always like this.” Soft.

“Yeah.” He wanted to reach out. Make a gesture. Didn’t think he could. Or should. Shake Jack’s hand? No.

“I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Still so careful. Were they to be like this always? Tentative. Soft. Cautious. Hesitant. God, he hoped not. It wasn’t the Captain, and it wasn’t him. He wanted it how it used to be. Probably not the flirting. That was over. Maybe… no, not likely.

“I’ll show you out.” Formal. Pained. He didn’t like it. Didn’t know what to do to change it.

They walked to the door. The silence was loud. He felt as if somebody was screaming at full volume, drowning out all sounds. They reached for the handle at the same time, both pulling back as if scalded. Not good. Not natural. He opened the door quickly, desperate for Jack to leave. He couldn’t stand the tension.

Jack walked out, then turned to face him from the hallway. He stared. There was a look on his face he’d not seen for at least a month. Desire, hesitant and tentative, as if testing the waters. It was shocking. It was wonderful. Why? Why now? After Jack’s last visit, those hateful words, he thought he would never see anything like this again.

“I lied.” It was mesmerising, watching the man speak. Even with a split, bloody lip.

“Pardon?” He was confused. What did Jack mean, he lied? Could it be?

“When I was here last. With you. I lied when I said I didn’t want you anymore. I do. I will always want you, Ianto. It’s not gonna happen tomorrow, or next week. But I think we can get it back. If you want to, that is.”

His heart was thumping. Beating fit to burst right out of his chest. He wanted Jack. He knew it now. Knew he couldn’t just step back into the same routine as before. But to know he could have it back eventually, when trust was in place. That was good. Better than good.

He couldn’t say anything. He could only nod. It was enough.

“Good. See you tomorrow.” And he was gone, just like that. A big smile, a flirty wink, then nothing.

He let out a breath. Force of nature, was Jack. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * * * * * * * * *

He stood in the dark hall, nervously straightening his tie and tugging on his jacket. First time. In a month. It was like starting the job all over again. First day nerves. Like a new school. Only one where he knew all the other students. Like he moved away and came back. From prison or some such. The new kid, redeemed, with a terrible reputation to move past. Murder.

The heavy wheeled door rolled open, exposing the Hub proper. As he thought, rubbish and debris littered the place. Looked like somebody attempted to clean. A large black bin bag was just inside the door. He stepped through, intending to pick it up and start tidying. A movement from above caught his eye.

He looked up, towards Jack’s office. He was there, with Gwen. It was obvious they were talking about him. They were both looking down. Gwen turned back to Jack, but Jack ignored her. He simply stared back at Ianto. His lip was marred with a dark line. He felt a little bad now. It looked better than it should. Jack should have a fat lip and bruising to his face. But it was just a cut, and looked a week old already. Weird. One more thing to enter into his mental list of Jack’s oddities.

Their eyes caught and held. He nodded. It was acknowledgement of everything. The betrayal, the guilt, his care during his suspension, the hits - even the attempt at sex. Jack dipped his head in return. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. They could do this. Move forward. Rebuild and regain.

And maybe, just maybe, grow close once more.

End 


End file.
